


Gasoline

by wevegotworktodo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wevegotworktodo/pseuds/wevegotworktodo
Summary: You can read minds, but when you hook up with the Winchesters to hunt Abaddon the Mark of Cain does crazy things to your ability. Doesn't help that Dean hates your guts. Things are complicated from the get go and just when you’ve come to terms with the situation you're in you're thrown another curveball.  Basically it's plot, smut, plot...wham!





	

As much as you appreciated her style, you still hated the fucking bitch. Ran into her on what should've been a routine demon interrogation, barely escaped with your life. Knowing of her plans to become the new Queen of Hell, she just became a priority on your hit list of big bad. You'd never met the legendary Winchesters, but when you found out they were going after Abaddon you immediately made a few calls, pulled a few strings, were able to offer them your services. 

 

At first they declined. ‘Didn't wanna drag anyone into their mess’, so you tracked them down, saved Sam's ass from a Rugaru; leaving them no choice but to respect your skills and finally agree to let you help, but it wasn’t without a fight. Dean had flat out said ‘No’, Sam persuading him, reasoning with him. Dean didn’t think he needed help killing Abaddon, all he needed was that ancient fucking blade to ignite the fire on his arm and an audience of one. 

 

You stood leaned heavy against their sleek black car as they whispered a several yards away, Dean side eyeing you the entire time, unsure if he was keeping an eye on you or the Impala, wasn’t until later you found out the answer was both. 

 

Finally Dean caves, decides to let you tag along. He rolls his eyes at Sam as he turns away. Face hardened as he struts towards you, all broad shoulders and bowlegs. “Rule number one kid: keep your hands’n your ass off Baby. Understand?”

 

You jump to attention.“Yes, sir. No finger or ass prints on the paint. Got it.” you say sarcastically. Dick. Sam's small smile apologizing for his brother’s behavior. He's a sexy dick so you decide to just let it go, climb on into the backseat. You do notice though that there's something missing, a fault in your code. It's confusing at first until Dean starts the engine, brings his left hand up and squeezes his right forearm before pulls her down into gear. 

 

Oh right, the mark. 

 

That was the first time you’d gotten under Dean’s skin, managed to stay there for so fucking long it was like a festering splinter, like a flame burning him from the inside out. At first he thought he’d just give in, get you underneath him and off his mind, but he knew he had to keep his himself in check, wasn't in any kind of position to ruin some kid. 

 

He was fucked up, way before the mark, before it began calling to him, even more so after. A raw nerve, a rubberband ready to snap. Hard to tell what he'd actually be capable of if he had that blade in his hands for any length of time, and although he'd never admit it --it scares him. Hell, he's dangerous enough without it, and now he can't shake the feeling the first blade gave him when Magnus put it in his hand, how it intensified a hundredfold as he swung it, felt flesh and bone sever beneath it. 

 

*****  
Generally you’re the loner, and you prefer it that way actually. Your ability making it hard to be close to the masses. The thing about space, it's what saves you, it's how you keep your wits and sanity when the voices won't leave you alone. Sure, this gift, it's helpful in the field; just have to get within ten or fifteen feet of someone to tell exactly what they're thinking, helped solve so many cases you'd lost count. But then there's the times you move, really put the distance in. No one understanding how hard it is to hear what people really think about you when they don't know you're listening, tends to break you down, chew you up and spit you out. 

 

Something about these boys, though. Almost like there’s some sort of fucked up gravitational pull towards them. Sam’s easy to get along with, maybe the best friend you've ever had. Dean, well, he's more complicated. First time you'd ever run across someone, or something, that you couldn't read. Either the man didn't have a thought bouncing around in that thick skull of his or the mark was keeping you out. Figure it was the latter, but not even that scenario makes sense--but of course you're no expert on B.C.angel magic either. At first it was a little frustrating, unsure if you could really trust him, but it didn’t take long to figure out the advantages of being around someone without the voices drowning you out.

 

***  
Each one of you have been working diligently, researching almost every damn thing in the Men of Letters bunker. You were looking more for info on the Knights of Hell, didn't think relying solely on Crowley was a good idea, while the boys searched for ways to help Cas with the whole Metatron thing. 

 

A couple of days into it and Dean seems to have a chip on his shoulder, something nagging at him. He's been short with you more times than not, but Sam's chalking it all up to stress; at least that's what he's telling you anyways. 

 

It's definite tension, and it's just between the two of you. If you hadn't known better you'd say it was of the sexual type, but in this situation anything sexual is completely one sided-- coming directly from you. So, no, definitely not the issue. 

 

Two weeks go by and Dean seems to withdraw more and more, spends most of his time snarling, or cussing, or drinking, or trying to avoid you altogether. Ugh… If you could only get in there, see what’s driving him. You already kinda feel like you understand him in a weird way. You've been stressed like this, to the point you'd just wanted to be left to your own devices, to tear yourself apart piece by piece, entertain your inner demons. 

 

Sam’s worried, more so than he lets on, so you decide to try at least. 

 

Who knows might work. 

 

Dean’s nose is buried in a lore book when you plop down across from him, grab one of your own to study from the pile in the center of the table, flip a few pages. Without looking up you focus all of your energy on him, attempting to push past whatever has your juju blocked. Doesn't last long, impossible to focus on anything when he's around. He's just too damn distracting. 

 

Your eyes drift upward, locking on Dean, you feel a heat rise up your neck and across your face, and it’s not the first time that you’re flooded with a menagerie of impure thoughts about him. You're shaken when his chair scratches across the floor, bringing you to your senses, and he’s all but breathing fire at you, shooting daggers with his eyes. He stands, slams the book closed and leaves. Almost running Sam over as he's making his exit. A short moment later the slamming of his bedroom door reverberating through the building. 

 

“What’s with him?” Sam asks as he claims what was Dean’s chair. Pulling his laptop over, striking a few keys. 

 

You cross your legs, in a feeble attempt to lessen the not so subtle ache between them. “Wish I knew.” 

 

“Caught wind of a case.” Sam pipes up, spins the screen around for you to see. You try to look surprised, but by now it’s old news, the idea floating around in his head all morning, just trying to decide if it’s worth checking out. 

 

Apparently he’s decided it is. 

 

You study the screen, “I’ll pack,” you say, but if you meant it you’d of prepared hours ago. 

 

He's going to ask you to stay. 

 

“Can… Can you stay here? Keep an eye on’m for me?” 

 

And you're gonna say yes. 

 

“Hard to keep an eye on grown ass man who hates you,” you scoff. 

 

He furrows his brow, tries to pretend he hasn't noticed the constant conflict, “Dean doesn't hate you, just goin’ through some stuff. J’st keep an eye on him, call me if there's trouble.” 

 

“Yeah, Sam. I know.” You sigh, feeling almost instant regret. 

 

This is a bad idea, from any angle. 

 

Ten minutes later and Sam’s heading up the stairs, duffle in hand. When the sound of the heavy steel door closing echos through the bunker Dean emerges from nowhere. “So, you're my babysitter?” He asks, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, one edge of the angry red mark just barely visible, peeking out beneath his cuffed flannel. 

 

You spin around caught off guard, not often someone sneaks up on you like that. “You don’t need a babysitter, Dean.”

 

“N’here you are.” 

 

Ungrateful motherfucker. I'm trying to help you. 

 

You begin walking away--you’re not willing to start a war with him-- but, walking away means heading towards Dean, past him then hang a left and head down the hall. 

 

You're almost home free, until you get within arms reach, “Hey. Look, s’not your fault Sam dumped me on you. I’ll try to be more tolerable.”

 

You stop dead, want so badly to tell him you get it, that he can talk to you, get it all off his chest. Instead you take in a deep breath, “Tolerable? Great,” you let it out. “I'll be in my room. Try not to burn the house down, will ya,” pat him on the shoulder as you carry on by. 

 

*****

 

It’s late when you make your way into the library, like nothing but infomercial late. Can't sleep again, figure you should at least check on him, for Sam’s sake--of course. The only thing that has changed is the pile of books tossed about on the table. Light from a single lamp dimly illuminating the room. Dean’s where Dean always is, chair spun around backwards, long legs straddling it, their distinctive bow that much more prominent in this position, fifth of liquor within arms reach-- no glass. 

 

Can’t beat ‘em, why not join ‘em? 

 

You grab the bottle on your way by. Turning it up and downing a swig as you sit. You're a drinker, but this stuff? It's not smooth at all. Fucking strong as hell, scalding all the way down, takes your breath, makes you cough and sputter. 

 

Dean’s amused, the corner of his mouth turning up into a tiny grin, “Sorry it doesn’t live up to your expensive tastes, Princess.”

 

Condescending prick. 

 

“I'm no Princess, but that shit tastes like gas,” you croak out. “And you're drownin’ in it.”

 

It wasn't really a question but he answers you without hesitation, like it's not the first time he's thought about it. “Gotta run on something, might as well be gasoline.” Taking the bottle from your hand he leans the neck towards you in a toast, begins to pull another long draw. He focuses on you through hooded lashes, throat bobs as he swallows, grits his teeth beneath the familiar burn. 

 

Your belly is ablaze, probably a mix of the cheap whiskey gnawing at your stomach lining and a mighty need for some groceries. 

 

I’m starving.

 

“Me too-- Burgers?” Dean asks, sliding the bottle towards you. 

 

Huh?

 

“I’m sorry?” 

 

Did he just?

 

His eyes go wide, hand comes up and over his face, “Oh, I…uh, I thought you said something,” down the back of his neck, his tell tell sign of frustration. 

 

Fuck. Nope. Nope. Not happening. 

 

This time it’s your chair that sounds like nails on a chalkboard as it screeches across the floor. You need to think, alone. Gotta put space...walls, between you--and fast. 

 

You slam the door to your room, kicking yourself in the ass for not noticing the signs before now. All of the things you do when someone becomes too much, when their thoughts are overwhelming. Dean’s had every fucking one and you’ve been too blind to see it. 

 

He knocks.

 

“Go away, I’ll be out in a minute.” You call, hoping that just maybe he’s unaware of the abilities boundaries. 

 

“I can hear you, ya know?” There's a desperation in his voice as he calls from the other side of the door-- which is apparently not as thick as you had anticipated. 

 

“Um… Yeah, still tryin’ to process that.”

 

He lets out a shaky breath. “So am I, Kid,” resting his forehead against the cool exterior of the door, his voice much softer than before, but the weight of his words still lingers heavy. 

 

You know what it's like to hear the things people don't want you to know, especially in the beginning. There are so many questions now, and your mind races. 

 

How'd this happen? Is he stealing your ‘power’? Part of it? Is it only you, or can he read everyone? Is it permanent? Temporary?

 

“Not helping, am I?” You sigh, placing one hand on your side of the door, hoping that in some way it'll make you feel closer to Dean.

 

“Too much, too fast,” He inhales deeply, takes a chance with the knob to find it unlocked. 

 

As the latch jiggles you take a few steps back, turn so that you're facing the wall just behind the door. “That's not a good idea, we can't be close to each other.”

 

Hesitantly he pushes the door open, “That part I have figured out, but we need to talk about this,” swallows hard--audible. 

 

“Please go. I'll just text you--or something.”

 

“That's not gonna work.” Taking the first step into your room, his boots heavy against the concrete floor. 

 

“Why not? It's how normal people communicate these days.”

 

“We're not normal people, kid,” another step closer. 

 

“I'm not a fucking kid,” you swing around to face Dean, underestimating how close he is, can feel the body heat radiating off of him and it causes your breath to hitch. 

 

Shit.

 

Dean knows you're frustrated, he is too, so he decides to go ahead and clear a few things up. “Look, Y/N, I know you're not a kid. Far from it. It--it's just my way of makin’ you...off limits.” His voice is lower now, rougher. 

 

“Oh,” You drop your head in defeat. 

 

Oh...OH! 

 

What he's saying finally registers. You look up, meet Dean’s emerald eyes with your own, and he looks like he could eat you alive. Tension is thick, hanging in the air around you, between you. It takes effort not to turn away. Instead you bite your bottom lip stifling back what you really want to say to him, forgetting for a split second that the attempt is fruitless. 

 

Dean’s wound up, his own filthy thoughts giving yours a run for their money. Despite everything he’s well aware of what your body is doing, his gaze stalking your lower lip as it's pulled between your teeth. May well have been the sexiest fucking thing a woman has ever done. Might just be this weird connection making him feel this way, so what if it is… 

 

“Fuck it.” He says, putting in the last step, closing the last bit of distance. His body weight pressing your back against the wall as he dips his head, just goes for it, lips crashing into yours. 

 

Your breath hitches because it's the last thing you expected, but you don't resist. Lips parting instinctively to allow him access. His tongue pressing forward meeting your own, and he tastes distinctly of the cheap whiskey, only now it tastes like heaven; heaven with a lingering coffee undertone. 

 

Exactly how you'd imagined it. 

 

As your shirt comes over your head you want nothing more than to melt into his arms, but when his hands move up your torso, across your ribcage, you stiffen, shiver. Dean breaks, “Sorry, cold hands,” he shrugs, runs his palms down his thighs a few times for some friction heat. 

 

You reach for them, “S’ok, I like the bite.” 

 

He flashes a grin as he retraces his previous path. Thumbs slipping just beneath the underwire at the swell of your breast, keep moving around to your back. Your bra comes unhooked and you don't know how he does it because his fingers never leave your skin. They're warm now, tingling, setting you on fire like ten lit matches. Doesn't matter if it happens from the outside in, he's already burning you from the inside out. 

 

The flames meet when Dean drops his head, lips moving purposefully from your ear lobe to your pulse point, his left hand tangled in your hair, angling your head to the side for better access. His right following the line of your breast, circling inward to your nipple. 

 

Jesus, this is actually happening

 

Your fingers are wrapped in the front of his flannel, steadying yourself as you lean into him. You get your bearings and pull, dragging it down his shoulders. He lets go long enough to shed it the rest of the way off his arms before he’s touching you again. Your hands are already under the bottom seam of his tee, working their way upwards, bunching the soft fabric with them as they move. He’s reluctant to let go again. Jesus, he groans when he does, lets you pull the cotton over his head. Working quickly because you already miss his touch. 

 

His hands come down from above his head, and he dips again. There it is, the flavor that’s distinctly Dean, rushing in, assaulting your tastebuds, and you can’t get enough. Doubt it will ever be enough…

 

Accelerated, impatient, as he moves his hands across you, further down your body. Fingers fumbling with the button on your jeans, “G’ddamn it,” his voice low and gravely, rumbling through your chest just as it does his. 

 

“Le’me,” your hands cup around the backside of his, fingers lace through. Somehow they manage to find the cool metal button, trembling with nerves and adrenaline. You stop moving when it pops loose, wait for his next move. 

 

He stares. Seconds feel like hours while he studies you searching for something. You try to be a blank canvas, your want taking over and speaking out...

 

Hands. Mouth. Now. 

 

It’s clear that he hears you, begins drifting around your waist-- both hands, depressing your jeans as he goes. Working lower until they no longer sit on your hips, but rather falling to your ankles. You go to toe them off but he puts a boot between your feet, holds the fabric steady while you step out. 

 

Dean palms your ass, squeezes, then hoists. Weightlessly you’re in his arms. That you weren't expecting. Regardless of your surprise you manage to get your hands on his shoulders, feel the flex of his muscles as he holds you; legs wrapped around his waist, the bulge in the front of his jeans pressing deliciously into your heat. He shifts right and necessities tumble into disarray, some clattering to the floor, when your ass comes to rest atop the chest of drawers. 

 

Still trembling fingers begin to work his belt. His hands resting wickedly on your knees, holding them apart, as he simultaneously toes at his boots. Anticipation is building in your core. You've been wet for a while, but now your pussy’s pulsing, aching for friction that isn’t just a tease. Dean leans forward to pull his jeans off. The light’s just right to notice a dusting of freckles over his shoulders, matching the ones scattered across his nose. It’s somewhat distracting, allows you to just breath without panting for once. 

 

He straightens his back, hands flow forward, up your thighs. You suck in a deep breath, your own hands finding their way to his forearms. The mark, you feel it under your fingertips, raised, prominent, and angry; a stark contrast to the smooth skin that lies beneath it. He pauses as you trace the scar, reading you again, almost like he's waiting for the sting of rejection. 

 

Pretty sure I'm insane, deranged on a good day. 

 

“Yeah?” you see relief wash over his face. 

 

“Yeah.” You lean forward, pulling him closer, begging him to move. 

 

He listens. Hands following the seam along the leg of your panties. They're wet, clinging to your skin, demanding. When his knuckles graze across your dripping flesh he sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth. At the same time you pull in a short, sharp one and hold it, let it out with a sigh as his fingers pull away. 

 

You bring your legs up, heels pressing into the back of his knees, urging, but Dean’s being a fucking tease. His lips are on yours again, his hands on your waist. They're alternating between dipping, tugging, pushing, at the hem of your panties, never where you want him, where you need him. 

 

Two can play this game. 

 

Dean knows what you want, so you've let him take the lead. Now, well...

 

Now, you're tired of his shit. 

 

He smiles. 

 

Fuck you. 

 

“You'd like to.”

 

You narrow your eyes. Digging your heels in until he stumbles forward, your ass sliding closer to the edge of the dresser, closing the already small gap between you. You push his boxers down, dragging them further with your feet. 

 

When you wrap your hand around his hard length his head lolls back slightly and he growls-- an honest to god deep animalistic growl. He snaps forward, hands coming up and over your thighs, and shoving your underwear to the side. He bucks his hips once, this position perfect ‘cause he's already nudging at your entrance. 

 

Heart's pounding, breathing is erratic. Dean’s hands snake around your waist again and lift. Then you're sliding down onto his cock, the burning stretch of ecstasy pulsing at your core. He's completely ditched his boxers, somehow, while you've been distracted with more pressing matters. He has the freedom to move, and he does. 

 

It's almost comical. The cool Dean Winchester stumbling to the bed with a woman wrapped around him, but you're so tight, and so wet, and he's wanted this for so long that of course he's weak in the knees. 

 

He sits, flops down on the bed. You leave your legs folded around his waist, arms around his neck. You're chest to chest, taking in the others exhalations. 

 

His arms are around you, up your back. One hand is gripping your shoulder, holding on like his life is dependent on it. The other wrapped in your hair, pushing you closer, closer. 

 

It's a frantic fixation. 

 

You rock, steady, keeping him buried deep. He chokes back deep raspy noises, cracking and fragmented as he grinds upward. He wants to be deeper but you both know it's impossible, bottomed out, head flicking against your cervix with each roll of your hips. 

 

Jesus! Fuck!

 

“M’know, kid.” It thunders out, probably too loud for the situation, and he seems surprised by it himself. 

 

There's that word again, kid. If he's using it out of habit then it's ok, as long as it's not an excuse to stop. 

 

Dean intervenes, “Tryin’ t’hold back, kid. C-- can’t blow my load yet.” 

 

At least he's honest. 

 

You hadn't noticed him trembling, all the muscle shifting beneath you acting as a camouflage. But you're close too, all those kegels paying off when you squeeze around the stretch and the burn. 

 

You fall. Spiral. Your head dropping to Dean’s shoulder as you shudder around him. The filthiest fucking noises you've ever heard are mixed, jumbled together. He wants to hold back, to help you ride it out, but your pussy clamping around him is just too much. 

 

He groans, has somehow managed to get a hand between the two of you and his thumb presses hard into your clit. The orgasm you thought was almost over is suddenly back with a vengeance, pulsing, pounding through you from your head to your toes. The combinations of the extra swell of Dean’s cock, his thumb stroking your clit, and him spilling into you, makes you light headed, euphoric…

 

*****

 

Not too long ago you were all running from a hellhound while trying to retrieve the first blade. Seems like Crowley might of finally come through.

 

Now, the blanket you're wrapped in is almost too warm, but you don’t dare move. Pretending to be asleep because you have one hell of a headache and if Sam tries to talk to you one more time about psychic abilities you might just break and tell him the truth. Yeah, it has to do with a possible case, but damn. 

 

Dean, for the love of God. Please keep him distracted. 

 

Dean stares forward, eyes on the road.

 

His phone rings and he fishes it from his inside pocket. It’s Crowley, telling him where to find Abaddon now that he has the blade. 

 

You sit up, throw the blanket back. Listen. You can’t hear him, but suddenly you can hear him. 

 

Something’s changed. 

 

It’s all jumbled up, in and out a little like a radio station you’re trying to dial in. You have to focus. Somewhere in the static you make out the words penthouse, and Poughkeepsie. While Sam’s left in the dark about the code word, you're not. It’s a trap, and Dean fucking knows it. 

 

Regardless of the hodgepodge a couple things are very comprehensible. One, Dean is out, can't read you anymore, but he's been too preoccupied to notice. And two, he has an itch that needs scratched. 

 

By the time you pull up across from the hotel things are finally coming in clear, but your head is angrily throbbing, light sensitive, and you're mildly nauseous. Dean’s transparency is a bit much to handle. It's dark in there. 

 

Now, he has a plan. 

 

“Crowley said there were demons in the basement. You two run a sweep down there. I'll take the main floor.” He can't look either of you in the eye. Keeps his head down as he grabs the blade from Sam, trudging off. 

 

You play along, but once you're in the building you slip away from Sam. Dean’s taking the stairs so you push the penthouse button in the elevator and wait, the doors closing slowly before you begin the ascent. You're hoping that somehow the six flights will slow him down, give you a chance to catch up. 

 

As you reach the door of the penthouse suite you can see a golden light flashing under it, and you know what that means…

 

You don't hesitate, burst right in guns blazing. Your mistake is obvious as you absorb the scene that’s unfolding. Abaddon's in the middle of the room, arm outstretched towards Dean as her energy flows through the air. It's taking all of her power to keep him pinned against that wall, the first blade lying at his feet in a pile of broken glass. 

 

Shit. He grits his teeth, stops struggling for just a moment while he processes. 

 

You really shouldn't be a distraction but when Abaddon notices the change in Dean she can't resist. A flick of her wrist and you’re swept off your feet, flying, crashing into the far wall, falling onto the corner table, and landing in a pile of busted wood. 

 

It gives Dean the momentum he needs, calling the blade into his hand and stepping forward. He runs it straight through her, lifting her into the air like she's weightless, floating. She screams as the light inside her flickers then dims. 

 

Everything’s spinning, whirling, then fades black. 

 

****

 

After dinner and pie, so much pie, you're finally alone. You decide it's better if Dean assumes you still can't hear him, maybe keep him from putting up a metaphorical wall between you. Plus you're so much better at hiding it than he was. 

 

You're both rummaging through your bags, looking for toiletries when you speak up. “Why so worried ‘bout sleepin’ over here?”

 

“Eh, just thought Sam might have a crush on you. Wanted to let him down easy.” 

 

“If it makes you feel better he doesn't, figured it out days ago. Us actually being civil to each other clued him in. Checked it off his list Tuesday when he caught me going to pee in the middle of the night.” Dean stops digging through his duffle, looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “I was wearing flannel...coming out of your room.”

 

He shrugs it off, nods and smiles in approval. Steps to you and pulls you into a kiss. “You saved me tonight, kid.” 

 

You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure it was the other way around,” you peck his lips, quickly deepening the kiss to keep him from arguing about this any further. 

 

Dean runs his hands down your sides with the intention of pulling your shirt off. You tense, jerk as you suck in a deep breath. 

 

“You're hurt. Le’me see.” His tone leaving little room for protest so you raise your arms, let him drag the tee over your head. Your muscles sharply aching with the lift. 

 

He steps back to inspect, there's a few small cuts and scrapes, already a large bruise forming on the right side of your torso. He's pissed because you didn't say a word about being in pain, could've given you one of those pills Sammy had from his last ER visit, at the very least a fucking drink. 

 

“It's really ok. Just a broken rib or two. I've had worse and they don't do anything for those anyway.” He looks at you still concerned, obviously not going to let this go. You sigh, heavy, “Fine, if it makes you feel better we can stop for X-rays in the morning. Right now I just wanna shower and ‘cuddle’,” a naughty wink accompanying your declaration, as you move by him. 

 

“Fine, but no funny business.” 

 

*****  
The hot water coupled with the tension release was just what you needed. Now you're curled up by his side, head in the crook of Dean’s arm resting between his chest and his shoulder. 

 

You're both exhausted and he's starting to drift. You're not even sure he's awake enough to be aware of what's bouncing around in there, maybe just a subconscious thought, something deep in his psyche making its way close enough to the surface for you to scrutinize. 

 

He's falling for you…

 

...and for the first time in your fucked up existence you're at peace with yourself, with what you do, and with who you are. 

 

****

 

“Sam!!!” He roars, voice exploding through the thin motel room walls. 

 

Sam bursts in- bed head, barefoot, gun drawn. He wasn't sure what he expected to find in their room but this was way worse than his imagination. He drops the gun on the spare bed, drops to his knees beside his brother, feels for a pulse. 

 

Nothing. 

 

Of course there was nothing, she was already the pale gray color of death, lips a steel blue. 

 

Dean was persistent, perfect compressions -30 of them, then two breaths, just like they'd seen in the video years ago. 

 

Sam has to be the logical one “She's gone,” he says softly. 

 

“No she's not. Help me. Call 911.” Dean grinds out, tears pricking his eyes, 

 

“Dean,” He shouts, wraps his arms around his brother who's still pumping her chest. “Dean, she's gone. She's been gone. Let her go man.” 

 

Dean shrug shoves Sam off his back, climbs to his feet, swipes the bedside table clean- lamp shattering as it hits the floor. He doesn't say anything else, just pulls on a pair of jeans, slips his boots on un-tied, grabs the keys to baby and takes off. 

 

***   
It's been hours. Hours. 

 

When Dean gets back he refuses to let Sam help move her, cradles her in his arms as he carries her to the impala. 

 

He'd built the pyre all by himself, the productive rage of a machine, and by the time they set the fire he's silent again, introverted. Like someone had tossed that lit match into his soul.

 

The minute it catches, when the flames start licking at the horizon things start changing for Dean. He's still hurt, still angry, but now there's more -- a familiar pounding in his head, a familiar voice accompanying it… 

 

Sam's off to the side, head bowed, the usual Winchester attribute of berating himself for the chain of events that have unfolded. Dean looks over at him, furrowed brow, unconvinced, stares for a moment to make sure his lips really aren't moving, that this really is happening again. 

 

...You can't wake up, this is not a dream. 

 

 

 

You're part of a machine, you are not a human being. Low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline.


End file.
